Every evening at twilight, James sat on the porch of his small home, a cup of tea cooling beside him. He had lived eighty-two years, but only one moment mattered—the night he first danced with Margaret.
She had been gone for a decade now, but that dance? It was forever. He would close his eyes and hear the music, feel her hand in his, her laughter like a melody against his chest.
One autumn evening, as the golden leaves swirled around him, a stranger appeared. He was tall, dressed in an old-fashioned suit, his voice like a song from another time.
"I can give you one tomorrow," the stranger said, "but you'll lose a yesterday."
James frowned. "What do you mean?"
"A chance to relive your dance, just once. But time takes something in return."
It was absurd. But when the stranger held out his hand, James took it.
And suddenly, he was there—1957, the Harvest Moon Dance, Margaret in her blue dress, her eyes shining. They danced, the world spinning away. It was real, the warmth of her, the scent of roses in her hair.
Then the music stopped.
James gasped, back on his porch. The stranger was gone. But something was missing—he couldn’t remember his daughter’s wedding day. Time had taken its price.
Yet, as he touched his heart, he knew he would do it again. Because love, even borrowed for one last dance, was worth everything.